The Sorcerer's Handbook

Eight years ago, in the year 1660, in Caimon City.

On a sweltering summer day, Fernandez drove a modest sedan into the poorer quarter of the city, returning to the cesspit he had long sworn never to enter again.

At the time, the old mayor, Pank, had died during an expedition into the Virtual World. His age and failing health had already pushed him toward retirement. Seizing the opportunity, Fernandez had allied himself with councilors and bribed civil officials, setting his sights firmly on the mayoral seat. It was also during this period that he founded the Forest Gallery, an institution that would soon wield decisive influence among Caimon City’s upper class.

Yet at this critical moment, while carefully orchestrating his campaign for the next mayoral election, he set aside all official duties and canceled every meeting. Alone, he drove an unremarkable sedan and parked it beside a road so rotten it seemed capable of growing filth on its own. He cranked the air conditioning to the maximum, lit his pipe, and fixed his gaze on an art studio at the street corner.

It was an utterly ordinary ogre painting studio, one of many lining the street, making the area reek unbearably and driving down nearby property values.

Oil painting was an innate talent among ogres. With education barely surpassing prenatal instruction, these low-quality citizens naturally avoided difficult paths in life. If they could coast on talent, they would, until they burned themselves out entirely with nothing left to save.

Despite the sheer number of practitioners, the industry had no real competition. Demand far exceeded supply, and a genuine ogre oil painting remained perpetually scarce. This was because, during the act of painting, ogres occasionally triggered a resonance with the Virtual World. Paintings created in this state allowed viewers to advance gradually through their sorcery classes, as if they were navigating through the Virtual World itself while still in the real world.

However, an ogre’s oil paintings had a limited lifespan, with their effects fading in roughly sixty days. They were consumables rather than lasting works of art, yet sorcerers prized them for their powerful effects. Their value soared, but only if the painter could trigger a resonance with the Virtual World. Without that, the paintings were worthless.

Most ogre painters, therefore, spent months or even years as apprentices, learning the craft and earning wages until they completed their first successful painting. Apprentices rarely handled cleaning duties. Few ogres cared about cleanliness to begin with.

If not for appearances, Fernandez would have ripped the white shirt clinging so tightly to him that it seemed ready to strangle him. He exhaled slowly. A ring of smoke drifted from his mouth as he tilted his head and noticed a young ogre walking past the car.

The youth wore a once-white tank top now stained brown, paired with shorts riddled with holes. At 1.9 meters tall, he was still considered short among ogres. His features leaned closer to those of a standard race, and his jagged fangs looked fierce but not ugly. He carried two large lunch containers, fulfilling his duty as an apprentice by buying meals for the painters.

Ogres needed to eat every two hours and preferred hot food, yet they loathed restaurants. No courier would enter their district, making delivery fees absurdly high. Deaths in the area were not covered by insurance. Considering all this, hiring an apprentice became the most practical solution. The apprentices weren’t paid any wages; feeding them was all that was required.

The moment Fernandez saw the young ogre, he froze. The youth, in turn, glanced toward the car, seemingly locking eyes with him.

After glancing around to make sure no one was nearby, the young ogre curled his lips into a crooked grin. He spat a foul, murky glob of saliva onto the car window, set down the lunch containers, and urinated against the car door. When he finished, he picked up a small stone and scraped it sharply across the car’s body several times. The shrill screech cut through Fernandez’s ears like a blade.

The side windows and windshield were double-layered glass. No one outside could see what was inside.

Fernandez watched as the young ogre trudged across the scorching street, whistling as he carried the lunch containers into the studio. The moment he entered, the owner appeared to scold him. The youth nodded repeatedly, while his face betrayed a fawning smile. Then, unnoticed, he spat into one of the containers before carrying them inside with exaggerated respect.

Throughout the entire process, Fernandez remained motionless, his hand frozen around his pipe. His gaze followed the young ogre’s back until the figure finally disappeared from sight.

Later, he drove back to the Administrative Department and reported the vehicle as damaged during official duty. He never bought a single painting from the young ogre, nor sent anyone to assist him. In fact, after that day, he never saw the youth again. Even when he later sought information about the young ogre, Fernandez did so under the pretense of preventing violent ogre crime, commissioning the Heresy Court to investigate over a dozen ogres, with one of them being the young apprentice.

Fernandez was separated from the youth by nothing more than a thin car window, yet he could not lower it. For the first time, the man who had risen from the city’s lowest depths to its pinnacle of power in Caimon City grasped the full horror of his nation’s diseased nature.

***

Back to the present, the year 1668, at the site of the Blood Moon Tribunal.

Fernandez faced Andrei’s pale expression. ”Do you know this? In most nations, every race maintains the family as the basic unit of society.”

Kenmen replied instinctively, ”That’s because they’re backward.”

”I have no interest in arguing whether the family system is backward or advanced,” Fernandez said, baring his teeth in a feral grin. ”I only want to make one point. Other nations have ruling races, but those races reproduce on their own, and some even establish royal families and noble houses.”

Faces grew paler as the blood-red moon cast a deeper crimson over them. Kenmen protested, his voice pleading, ”That only proves their class structures are rigid. They are backward. The Blood Moon Kingdom is the most civilized of all—”

Fernandez roared over him, ”We prohibit the existence of families because our ruling races cannot reproduce on their own. They are born without homes! Blood Saints undergo blood replacement, and Moonshadows undergo lunar cleansing. Once they successfully transition, they lose the ability to reproduce. To create new offspring, they must transform members of other races.

”The two Blood Moon races are parasites that cannot survive alone. They drain the finest talents from every race, turn them into their own kind, and grow stronger while enslaving everyone else for generations!

”Why can’t we have families? Because the Blood Saints and Moonshadows abandoned blood ties, and so we are forbidden from having them as well. We cannot unite through family, love, or kinship!

”Why do they emphasize racial human rights and freedom? Because the Blood Saints and Moonshadows are genderless, raceless, and ageless monsters. They exist almost as a natural collective, while we tear ourselves apart over race, gender, age, education, and status. They deliberately incite conflict so we can never unite around shared interests!

”The Racial Human Rights Act builds towering walls around each of us. The Bloodline Prohibition Act ensures we can never break those walls. From that moment, every one of us became an isolated individual, forced to face the institute and the church alone!”

Fernandez raised his left hand, still weighed down by chains, and pointed toward the prison. His voice was cold. ”Are we any different from death row inmates? No. The only difference is that they are drained by the prison, while we are drained by the Blood Moon. Their words and actions are controlled by chips, but our thoughts are controlled for life!

”In the Blood Moon Kingdom, from the moment we are born until we die, we have only two paths. We either become a Blood Saint or Moonshadow, or we become their food. The Blood Moon is a beast in the skin of civilization, the most savage civilization of all.”